High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

24. Liam

24

LIAM

I don’t go to my parents’ house for Thanksgiving. Not this year. Not after everything with Birdie and the fellowship. Just the thought of sitting across the table from my dad, watching him carve the turkey like nothing’s happened, makes me want to punch a hole in the wall.

I was a rowdy kid, but I’ve never been the violent sort. Better not start breaking character now.

They weren’t thrilled when I told them. My mom sniffled a little, saying it wouldn’t feel the same without me. A phony guilt trip if I’ve ever heard one. My dad just grumbled something about priorities.

I sold them on a made-up story about James being lonely. Something about a minor league community outreach project he was “obligated” to stick around for—not entirely true, but close enough to be convincing.

Baseball season’s over, and he could’ve driven home if he really wanted to. But he’d mentioned wanting to lie low, avoid the usual family chaos, and I figured we were on the same page about that.

James doesn’t need the family drama, and neither do I. I’ll confront my dad eventually. When I have the energy for it. When I know what to say. But not today. Today, I just want to see my brother.

I drive to his place out in Stonewater.

It’s not much—just a small apartment near the minor league complex—but it feels a hell of a lot better than being at home. James doesn’t cook, though, so we head out to the Cracker Barrel and settle in for a low-key Thanksgiving.

We sit in a corner booth, plates piled high with turkey, stuffing, and those little biscuits they keep bringing out in baskets. It’s so far removed from our family’s usual Thanksgiving—formal dining room, silver platters, wine pairings—that I can’t help but like it more. It’s weirdly perfect.

“So,” James says, leaning back in his seat as he spears a piece of meat. “What’s been going on with you? And don’t mumble or dodge the question with a half-assed joke.”

He’s right—I’m usually a straight shooter—but talking about this stuff makes me antsy. It’s like trying to talk around the real thing, dancing when all I want to do is stand still. But I know James. If I don’t give him something real, he’ll just keep pushing.

I shrug, swirling a forkful of mashed potatoes. “You remember that girl I mentioned before? The artist?”

James narrows his eyes slightly, already suspicious. “Yeah, what about her?”

“Well . . . I like her. Like, really like her. And we’ve been kissing.”

He raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Kissing? Is that code for—”

“No,” I cut him off, scowling. “Quite literally just kissing. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh, and?”

“And she’s feeling really shitty right now,” I add, ignoring his pointed tone. “She lost the fellowship, and she’s super anxious. Like, shut-down-anxious. We said we’d handle shit together, but she’s pulling away. And I don’t really know how to help her other than to give her the space she’s asking for.”

James’ smirk fades. “Yeah, that’s tough.” He sets his fork down, leaning forward slightly. “You, uh, you remember Declan? My buddy who moved away senior year?”

“Obviously.”

Declan was practically a third Donovan brother for half of high school. While I had trouble making friends, my brother collected them like trophies.

“Well, he used to get anxiety attacks. Before a game, he’d be in the stands sniffing lemons. Said it helped calm him down. I guess it’s a thing.”

I stare at him, deadpan. “So . . . I should give her some lemons to sniff?”

“No, you dipshit.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m saying you should think of things that calm her down. Things she likes, stuff that makes her happy. And try them with her. If you like her, show her.”

I nod, chewing it over. “Like what, though?”

“How the hell should I know?” he says, grinning. “You’re the one who likes her. Figure it out. Or if you can’t, at least just . . . sit in the shittiness with her for a while.”

We shovel the rest of the food into our mouths, the conversation trailing off into comfortable silence. The biscuits are good—like, I ate twelve of them good—and when the check comes, James insists on covering it, and I don’t bother to argue.

“Consider it my contribution to your sniffing lemons fund,” he says, smirking as we head for the door.

Despite everything, I laugh. It’s a bad joke, but it feels good. Wholesome, even. And maybe James is right—maybe all I need to do is figure out what makes Birdie happy and lean into it.

When we get back from break, and she stops icing me out, I’ll be ready with something better than just space. Something that shows her I’m here for the long haul.

I was wrong. Break’s over, and Birdie’s still keeping her distance. I showed up to her apartment a couple of times, knocked, waited, even texted to let her know I was outside. But nothing. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to see me.

She said we’d talk before I left for the tournament, and we didn’t. Now I’m here, at the College Cup, trying to focus on the biggest week of my soccer career. A futile effort when I know she’s back in Dayton, wallowing and shutting me out.

The team arrived in Ashworth three days ago, and it’s been nonstop since. Practices, strategy sessions, media briefings—it’s a whirlwind of activity that leaves little room for anything else. Which, I guess, is a blessing in disguise. If I wasn’t this busy, I’d be losing my mind thinking about her.

The first game is relentless. We’re playing Stanford, and it’s brutal—physical from the first whistle, the kind of match that leaves you bruised and gasping for air. Chase scores early in the first half, a perfectly placed header off Amir’s corner kick that electrifies the crowd.

By the time the second half rolls around, we’re up 1–0, but Stanford’s pressing hard. Their forwards are quick, incessant, and I’m stuck tracking one of them who feels like he’s running on rocket fuel. My lungs are burning, my legs are screaming, but there’s no time to slow down. Every tackle feels like a battle, every pass like a lifeline.

The final whistle blows, and we barely hold on for the win. Relief floods the field, but it’s muted—we know we’ve still got more to fight for.

In the lockers afterward, the atmosphere is electric. Guys are cheering, clapping each other on the back, already buzzing with anticipation for the next game. But we know it’s only going to get tougher.

And it does. The next game is a war. We’re up against NCSU, the defending champs, and they’re as sharp as everyone said they’d be. The match is a chess game from the start, every move calculated, every pass contested like it’s the last. By halftime, it’s tied at zero, and we’re all running on fumes.

Coach gives us one of his fiery speeches during the break, the kind that’s supposed to light a fire under you. But even that can’t change the fact that they’re just better. They score early in the second half—a quick counterattack that cuts through our defense like a knife—and no matter how hard we push, we can’t find an answer.

We throw everything we have at them in the final minutes—long balls, desperate shots, every ounce of energy left in our bodies—but it’s not enough.

The game ends 1–0, and just like that, our season is over.

The locker room is silent. No sharp speeches this time, no celebratory shouting. Just the sound of cleats being pulled off, of guys packing up their gear, of dreams ending in the span of ninety minutes.

And then Chase breaks the silence.

“I know this fucking sucks. We blew it, obviously. But I—I signed my contract,” he blurts out, standing in the middle of the room with a grin so wide it practically splits his face. “Isn’t that wild?”

We’re still reeling from the loss, but a win like this, a moment this big—it cuts through the disappointment like a burst of sunlight after a storm. It’s perfect timing, really. We needed something to remind us that the game doesn’t end here, that there’s more waiting for us beyond the final whistle.

Chase is beaming, soaking up the cheers and backslaps from the team. When he gets the chance, he tells me, “I report in January. Sorry I have to leave you, buddy.”

I grab him by the shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Don’t be sorry. This is huge, man. They’re lucky to have you.”

And it’s true. A Generation Adidas contract—it’s one of the biggest deals a college player can get, a fast track to the MLS. It’s everything Chase has been working toward, and he earned it.

“Hell yeah, they are.”

By the time we get back to the hotel, everyone’s wiped out. The mood is a strange blend of relief and finality, a quiet realization that this chapter is closing for some of us faster than others. Chase and I quickly retreat to our room, and once we’re alone, he corners me.

“Hey,” he says, his tone a little quieter now. “You’re gonna be okay, you know? When I’m gone.”

I shake my head. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now.”

“I’m serious,” he says. “You’re one of the best players on this team, Liam. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you. Don’t let anything—not my leaving, not anyone —make you think otherwise.”

The lump in my throat comes out of nowhere, and I nod, swallowing hard. “Thanks, buddy. That means a lot coming from you.”

And it does. He’s not the sentimental type. More of a jokes-first, feelings-later guy. If he’s saying this now, it’s because he means it.

He claps me on the shoulder, grinning again. “Now, get some sleep. You’ve got to hold down the fort for the rest of the year.”

Chase has always had this larger-than-life energy, like he’s built for more than just the everyday grind. Seeing him so certain, so ready for what’s next, should feel bittersweet. But right now, it’s just bitter.

He showers, climbs into the bed across from mine, and falls into an easy sleep. For me, the silence is loud, pressing in on all sides. The adrenaline from the game is long gone, replaced by this strange, heavy emptiness.

I scroll through my phone, reading the same notifications I’ve already cleared, hoping for something—anything—to distract me. A text from my mom asking about the game. An email from a professor reminding us about the final project. A random spam email about discounted protein powder.

Instead, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, a bit hopeless. Chase is leaving. Birdie’s still not talking to me. The season’s over.

I feel untethered. It’s like everything I’ve been holding on to is slipping through my fingers, one piece at a time. The team, my roommate, her. All of it disappearing at once.

I felt like this after James and Hayes left, too. Like the world was shifting under my feet, and I couldn’t find solid ground. But things eventually got better. I found my rhythm again, settled into a new routine, and it didn’t feel so uncertain anymore.

But Birdie isn’t a roommate I can replace or a teammate I can adjust to losing. She’s something else entirely.

I think about the way she smiles when she teases me, the way she kisses me like I’m the only person in the world. The way she makes me feel like I belong, like there isn’t something wrong with me. Around her, I don’t have to try so hard—I can just be.

And that’s the thing. This doesn’t feel like something I can bounce back from, not after a loss like that. Not when it’s her.

I can’t make it permanent. I won’t. Not if I have any chance of fixing this. Birdie means too much to let her slip away without a fight.